


We Live As We Dream

by pianoforeplay



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-18
Updated: 2011-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pianoforeplay/pseuds/pianoforeplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bono has a fascination with his bassist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Live As We Dream

There was a time when he was your favorite party mate. The two of you stealing away after every gig and staying out 'til all hours of the morning, enjoying the nightlife of every city in the world, basking in neon signs, flashing strobe lights, smoke-filled rooms, scantily-clad women, and raging dance beats. An inebriated haze of laughter, energy and a fucking good time. They were a form of freedom for the two of you, a chance to break away from the grueling and seemingly never-ending schedule of airline flights and sound checks and rehearsals, your time to be loose and wild and free outside of the public eye and media. Your time to truly act like the rock stars you were both meant to be.

And he's always played the part to perfection. Ever since the beginning, really - choosing Guinness over prayer group and a nicely rolled joint over confession. The rock star persona has always fit him better than you even though you don the over-the-top make-up and the booming voice and blow your ego up to fill the arenas you play. You're the spokesman and the focus of the group, yes. You're the one the rest of the band is identified with and it's the shit you pull that garners the attention, but everybody within the circle who even has a bit of sense knows that yours is the disguise and his the reality.

It's in his swagger, the way he strolls across the stage with the air of someone who owns the place, has the world ready and available to him on a silver platter.

It's in the way he holds his instrument with little to no care, as though it's an extension of his own body, just another appendage to deal with.

It's in the way the cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth, like he was born with it that way. And you think that maybe he was because you honestly can't recall ever not seeing it there.

It's in the way his mere presence can fill a room. But only when he wants it to, other times choosing to sink into the corner without a trace, free to observe from the shadows.

It's in that look in his eye, that impenetrable gaze that reeks of confidence, bordering and occasionally crossing into arrogance. It's in the women he brings to the hotels night after night, all of them with legs up to their necks and perfect, plastic smiles.

It's in the drugs he indulges in and offers to you freely, the way he smiles wryly when you decline, shrugging and taking his own hit. You remember vaguely, someone once comparing him to James Bond. And you think that they very well may be on the right track. If James Bond had a white mohawk and could play the bass, that is.

But lately you've noticed a change in him. What was once a week-long hiatus has escalated into something you can no longer control. Now it's not after the occasional gig, but after every single one, an endless stream of drunken, sweat-soaked nights of excess, full of too many clubs, too many women, and too many hang-overs. Even for you.

But he doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down. He's always still there when you leave, never giving any indication that he might have the same inclination anytime soon. So you go without him, back to the hotel where you always end up waiting for him anyway, no matter how long it takes. You find you can't sleep unless you know he's back and... safe. You don't know why, but that's just the way it is.

For the lack of sleep you get and the worry you endure, you might as well just stay there with him. At least then you could keep a look out, maybe stop him from doing anything stupid.

But really, who are you kidding? As it is, you always end up looking the other way. It's not your problem, certainly not your business. Look away. It's better for everyone.

So you leave.

:::

He sits across from you now, twenty, maybe twenty-five feet away. Through the haze of red smoke, pulsating lights and meandering party-goers you can see him sprawled out like a king on an enormous red velvet couch. He's surrounded by a small flock of beautiful men and women you've never seen before, all of them clinging to him. Like leeches, you think.

The curvaceous brunette to his right is leaning in close to his ear, whispering something obviously meant to be seductive as her hand roams slowly across his chest, slipping under the inside of his button-up silk shirt, her tongue snaking out to lick at his earlobe. You watch a smirk of approval sneak to his lips, a chuckle issuing from within him, unheard by you over the pounding music.

The muscular, perfectly bronzed man to his left is leaning forward now, unfolding a piece of what looks like aluminum foil, uncovering a small mound of white powder. He hands a paper bill to the grinning bassist and that's when you look away.

Like always.

You set your cocktail down and smile politely at the small entourage that has formed around you before standing and hesitantly head for the door.

Maybe you should stay this time, make sure he doesn't fuck himself up for the third night in a row this week. But then again, what's the point? After all, this isn't your problem and you're not his mother. It's his life, his prerogative, his decision. And he's a big boy, he can take care of himself. Besides, he'd probably just tell you to fuck off and mind your own business anyway, so why should you care? And really, why should you?

You motion to Eric who's standing hidden in the corner, seemingly in deep conversation with one of the club's many bouncers. He lumbers over and listens disapprovingly as you tell him you're going back to the hotel and that he, contrary to what he believes he's getting paid for, is staying here. After a good ten minutes of bickering and an exchange of many foul words, he finally agrees. And so you walk into the night, just a little more at ease now that you know someone will be looking after him.

But only a little.

You silently thank the climate of Southern California as you walk out into the brisk sixty-degree weather of the calm April night. It's cooler than inside the club, but not as chilly as you're used to for this time of year and this time of night. Or morning, as it were. You wander along the streets of West Hollywood for awhile, ignoring the buzzing neon signs and passing cars, your mind set only on him.

You know what he's doing right now. Or you have a damn good idea at least, you know the limited options. He's playing his role, dancing whole-heartedly in the indulgences and trappings of the business, reveling in the "glamour" and the "perks." Giving up his life for rock'n'roll. You even wrote a song about him a few years back, though at the time he wasn't the subject. At least not consciously, anyway.

Your thoughts on him suddenly vanish as you observe a group of teenage boys standing along a fence a block or two up the street. There's three of them, one is talking to another energetically, dancing about like a hyper-active cockroach, while the third stands apart from the other two, staring down the street, a disinterested, almost vacant look in his eyes. After awhile he notices you looking at him, gives a nod and begins heading in your direction, a grin quickly spreading across his face.

In a few moments he's sidling up beside you, smiling loosely and licking his lips. He's dressed in plain, worn-in blue jeans and a tattered t-shirt that's just a bit too small for him, clinging to his body, outlining a small bit of natural muscle. His wrist is adorned with a charm bracelet that makes a tiny tinkering noise as he moves and you notice a silver hoop in his left ear.

And you know full-well what he is, what he does for a living, how he survives. You've been around the world and have seen the same exact thing in just about every city. Doesn't mean it makes it any easier to understand though, does it? So you talk to each one you find, every new encounter a sort of clue or peek into this world that you can never seem to fathom.

Or maybe just don't want to fathom.

Because they always tell you the same thing: it's for the money, for survival, for getting through one more fucking day. Or one more hit. So, you offer alternatives, suggest different roads to travel, try to point out the light at the end of the tunnel if they only change their ways. And you always get the same response: there is no light. And there never will be. And no one like you could ever possibly understand that. And you think maybe they're right, maybe you are just some self-important pop star with an over-bloated ego and a penchant for poor, unfortunate souls. Maybe you're just a preacher, a hopelessly out-of-touch evangelist who spouts "the way" without knowing it, without walking and breathing it.

But you know that's not entirely true. Because, first of all, you do care. Honestly. People may think it's a show, that you play to the cameras and do benefit concerts and charity auctions to make you and the band look like you stand for some kind of moralistic bullshit. But when it comes down to it, you honestly and truthfully, do care.

Secondly, in a small, perhaps only metaphorical way, you do live it. After all, you're a slave to the public, a whore to the media, a musical prostitute. You perform night after night for strangers you'll never get to know, the vast majority you'll never even fucking see. At the end of the night, you more or less pocket the money and go home, spend it on drugs and alcohol and women. Spend yourself.

Rinse.

Repeat.

It's impersonal, calculated, cold. It's sex without love. It's buying kisses.

It's selling sex.

This particular boy, he can't be much more than sixteen years old, doesn't seem to be too fond of your questions. He squints at you, his lips curling as your typical questions flow. Most of them beginning with 'why'. But he isn't unwilling to answer and you're grateful for that. Unfortunately, however his replies uncover no new secrets, reveal nothing that you haven't heard a million times before. Your inquiry has failed.

You reach into your wallet and pull out a fifty, it's the only cash you have on you (of American money, anyway) and hand it to him. He's resistant at first shaking his head, but not for long, quickly taking it and mumbling a thank you. You nod and head up the street again, getting ready to hail a cab before you turn to him one last time.You never leave a city without acquiring at least one new name of a person you will very likely never see again, but will always have an intangible place in your heart and the annals of your memory. A fact they'll never know, but you'll never forget. He smiles as you ask and tells you with no hesitation.

And his answer makes your stomach turn.

:::

You arrive at your hotel in a matter of minutes and after signing a few autographs in the lobby you head into the elevator and up to your room. You find yourself slowing down as you near his door, contemplating whether or not to knock, even though you know full well he won't be there.

You fumble a bit at the lock on your door before stumbling inside and absently flicking the light on. You turn on the television and slip your shoes off to the white noise of some infomercial on skin care before slumping onto the bed, trying to ignore the enormous sense of guilt that suddenly sweeps over you.

You shouldn't have left him, that's all there is to it. You should have stayed. You already know how he'll come home: staggering and incoherent, probably with a fuck under one or both arms, smelling of booze and marijuana, and no doubt with some other more pungent drug coursing through his blood stream.

And you know how he'll be in the morning: tired and frayed, limbs useless as he lays in a heap on the bed. That glassy, fogged over look in his eyes, his speech muffled and angry. And you already know what you'll say to him. That he needs to get his head on straight and stop fucking around, stop injecting himself with shit that will only do well to destroy him. And he'll tell you to fuck off and roll over and you'll leave then, slamming the door behind you.

And you'll refuse to care.

But that won't work, will it? Because you do care. More than he fucking knows.

Or ever will know. You find yourself wandering over to the door joining your room to his. You started getting connected rooms near the beginning of the tour when you discovered it was easier for two highly intoxicated souls to stumble into one room and figure out the logistics of proper sleeping habits later, once sobriety could suitably enter into the equation. It wasn't rare back then for you to crash into bed together, both of you too spent, too wasted to dispose of clothing.

Inevitably, one of you would wake up a few hours later and stagger into the adjoining room. It was usually him.

You were always content to just lie there, listening to his steady breathing, occasionally feeling his chest rise and fall under your head. Smell the cigarettes and alcohol on his breath. A strange and inexplicable sensation to be sure, but one you always cherished.

Inwardly, of course.

But then things changed. The nights grew longer, the mornings shorter. He became more entrapped in his role, began taking women back instead of you, began staying out later, began talking with more glamorous, more beautiful people, began taking harder, more dangerous drugs. And that's when you started leaving him behind. Because you just couldn't watch anymore. It hurt too fucking much.

The connecting rooms now are purely for your own benefit; for your own peace of mind. They serve as the phone call to let you know he's safe. Or at least 'home,' somewhere you can keep some kind of eye on him.

Or ear, really.

Your hand reaches for the bolt and with a quick flick of your wrist, it's unlocked. It's become somewhat of a habit now, something you don't even think about: walk in the door, turn on the light, unlock the connecting door, de-clothe, crawl into bed.

And wait.

Not that there's ever a point to it; he never comes in. But still you can't help it. Just in case, you tell yourself. Just in case he needs you.

You head to the bed now, stripping off your sweaty and sticky clothing, pull back the sheets and lazily climb in. The light on the stand beside you remains on as you have no intention of even trying to fall asleep. You know damn well it won't happen anyway. Not until you know. Not until you hear him.

You lie there silently as the hours crawl by, watching re-run after re-run of Gilligan's Island and Bewitched and All in the Family until you eventually resort to your copy of Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" to pass the time. You notice the sun beginning to peek through your window and Marlowe has just met the Russian when you finally hear his familiar sounds.

The clumsy slamming of the door and the rustling of keys, followed closely by the soft murmuring of two voices - his and whomever's he's brought back with him for the night. It's casual conversation interspersed with pauses and rustling noises.

And you're actually somewhat surprised you can hear him - them - at all. The majority of hotels you've stayed in recently have had thick walls, preventing any sounds from even an adjacent room to seep through. But not this one, apparently, and you're secretly (or not so secretly) thankful for that.

You set your book down, not even bothering to mark your place, resting it gently on the nightstand as you strain to listen more attentively.

Like normal it's a low guttural sound you hear first, rumbling deep from somewhere in the back of his throat. It's muffled by something you can never see, but always try to imagine. Clothing, the shirt he was wearing that night being pulled over his head. Or a pillow, perhaps, as he rolls over. Maybe someone's skin, his mouth mumbling erotic plans for the evening as he strips the clothes off their back, or lips underneath his, tongues tangled. It's always too ambiguous to tell.

The next is a groan almost identical to the one before it, only longer, more drawn out. And you imagine this is when he is admiring his lover, whoever it may be on this particular night. Probably another model, a 5'10 Venus with olive skin, they seem to be his tricks of choice, don't they?

But you try not to think of that.

It's at this point, that the sounds tend to vary. Sometimes he gets quiet and you have to wait a few minutes before you can catch anything at all and then it's usually only a few short, quiet gasps. When it's like that you usually picture him crawling slowly on the bed like a predator, a panther, softly gliding his hands over the expanse of his partner's body, examining, calculating, preparing.

Other times the moans crescendo and grow steadily longer and you can envision him slowly stripping the other body bare before stretching his lean frame languorously over it. These times his entire form serving as an instrument for accumulating data, sending responses to his brain where they can more accurately be analyzed and proper action can be taken.

On this particular night you notice that he's opted for the second choice, the full-body contact, and loud moans of pleasure fade through the walls. And truthfully, you prefer this choice. Frankly, because... well, it's his voice. Loud. And that is certainly most beneficial to you. And also, because your studies have found that the softer sounds usually entice a louder response from his partner of choice later on which tends to interrupt your concentration. Though you're usually pretty good at tuning them out, focusing your full attention on only him. You think you know the sound of his pleasure more accurately than even your own.

Your hand slips under the sheets now, sliding down your stomach, barely touching your skin, a sensation that would be ticklish if the hand belonged to anyone other than yourself. Your fingers skim the surface of flesh just below your belly button and your head instinctively rams back into the pillow, your eyes snapping shut and teeth clenching tightly.

You focus on the sounds emanating from the other room. Amazingly, his partner for the evening is being decidedly quiet, leaving you free to drown soley in his voice, moans of pleasure sinking into your ears, racing down your spine, splitting you in two as your hand wraps around your straining erection, stroking slowly.

You hear more muffled whispers and the groans of shifting bodies and picture him hovering over you, eyes locked with yours as he breathes hotly on your mouth before capturing it possessively with his own. And your own free hand finds its way to your mouth, your teeth clasping around your fist sharply as you whimper, your own breath hot on your knuckles.

And the groans have become more rhythmic, are now sputtering grunts and whimpers and fuck, but he's vocal, because at this moment his is the only sound in the world you can hear. It floods your ears and takes over your senses, burrowing deep within you.

You bend your knees and lift your hips up to your hand, desperately trying to match the beat that he is creating, your teeth biting painfully down into the flesh of your fingers.

In your mind he's pounding into you, beads of sweat dripping off his forehead and onto your chest, slipping down the contours of your stomach. His breathing is quick and staggered, short bursts of hot air as he strains from the excursion. And his hand is wrapped around your dick, pumping you furiously as you lay sprawled beneath him, filled with him, breathing him, tasting him, feeling him.

And through the wall you hear the signal of his finality, that low growl of aching pleasure and blissful release that is purely his own, entirely unlike that of any other human being. It sends you over the edge and you buck into your own hand, imagining it's him, that you're looking up into his eyes, feeling him around you and inside you and you spasm, releasing the hand in your mouth and crying out, his name falling easily from your lips, in short, quick pants.

A few moments pass before you open your eyes, your vision clearing slowly and you wipe your hand across your stomach and onto the sheets and reach over to turn off the light on the table. You roll over to the other, now cleaner, side of the bed and pull the blankets up to your chin, blocking out the sounds you hear now, the fading whispers and hushed murmurs.Try only to think of sleep.

And it works.

You're not awake to hear the turning of the doorknob twenty minutes later.

And you're not awake to see him lean against the doorframe, staring at you, a disinterested, almost vacant look in his eyes as his fuck of the evening slowly gets dressed behind him.

You're not awake when he sighs softly and slowly closes the door, giving you one last glance.

You never are.

 **end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Initially posted [here](http://pianoforeplay.livejournal.com/14764.html) on 5/19/2003.


End file.
